Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  Trista knew Lance could be vicious; she had seen him fight with Striking Snake. Yet she had also seen him at other times . . . times when he'd been gentle and tender and . . . Her traitorous thoughts disturbed her greatly.

  "Eleanor, if you will excuse me . . . " Trista stood suddenly, needing to get away . . . to get her wayward thoughts under control.

  "Of course, dear." She was understanding. "Don't worry about a thing. You're safe here. I'm sure they'll never let him bother you again."

  Eleanor's words . . . they'll never let him bother you again . . . followed Trista from the dining room as she hurried to seek out the sanctity of her own room, unshed tears stinging her eyes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Trista had gone, Eleanor nervously began to pace the dining room. She longed to know what was transpiring in the study, but realized that her presence would not be welcomed by the three men. Deeply troubled, she wandered out into the hall and paused before the study door, hoping to be able to hear some of the conversation. To her disappointment, she could distinguish nothing of what was being said. Frustrated, she moved into the parlor to await George's coming to her.

  What had taken place that evening troubled her deeply. The half-breed's unexpected arrival at the Royal Diamond had infuriated her. How dare Lance return to the ranch after all these years?! And how dare he claim that Trista was his wife?! The possibility was just too ridiculous to consider. Trista was engaged to Michael, and now that she was safely home, they could be married as soon as her father arrived from Philadelphia.

  A deep fear possessed Eleanor that Lance would now be staying permanently at the ranch. The thought provoked a grim determination within her. In a silent promise to herself, Eleanor vowed she would do everything in her power to keep the half-breed from coming there to live. The Barretts had a name and a reputation to uphold. She had no intention of allowing George to sully it with Lance's presence or allowing Lance to share in Michael's inheritance. The Royal Diamond was to be Michael's, and Michael's alone. She would not allow him to share it with anyone, least of all a half-breed brother.

  Eleanor hoped and prayed with all her heart that George would quickly dispatch his half-breed offspring back from where he'd come. He had no business there on the ranch. He was nothing but a filthy savage, and he deserved to be treated that way. His kidnapping of Trista proved what a brutal red devil he really was.

  Eleanor thought of Trista then and was amazed that she had held up so well under the strain of a confrontation with the Comanche who'd taken her captive. She was certain it must have been a terrible ordeal, and she admired the fact that Trista had been so controlled when she'd seen him. Only Trista's sudden display of temper in her argument with Michael and her threat to call off the wedding had bothered Eleanor. She had approved of Michael's choice for a wife because she had truly believed that Trista could be easily handled. Now, however, the opposite appeared to be true. Trista seemed headstrong and most opinionated, and it concerned Eleanor. She definitely didn't want Michael marrying a strong-willed woman. She didn't want to risk his coming under the influence of a wife who might steer him away from her own guiding, maternal love.

  Lance entered the study and, for just the briefest of moments, was transported back to the last time he'd stood there . . . the last time he'd faced his father. The memory left him feeling young and confused and torn, and he fought it down with all his might. No longer was he a small boy begging for love from a distant, dismissing parent. He was a man now.

  As he heard his father enter the room behind him, Lance purposefully kept his expression remote and more than a little disdainful. It would never do to let Barrett know how deeply he had been hurt or how long that hurt had remained with him in the guise of bitter hatred.

  "What is it you want to speak of, Barrett?" Lance demanded as he turned to face him.

  George stared at the haughty warrior before him, recognizing the son he had once known, yet also seeing Lone Elk in him. "With Lone Elk's help you have become a fine man," he said in an attempt to bridge the gap between them.

  "Lone Elk has been a good father to me as well as an uncle."

  Again Lance's words cut George to the quick, and he was hard put to remain in control of his emotions. This was Lance . . . the son he'd longed for . . . the son he'd loved and lost in a time of his life that was filled with great sorrow and grief. He wanted him back with him on the ranch at any cost.

  "He loves you as I do," he agreed hoarsely.

  "I have come for Trista, not to speak of unpleasant things." Lance cut his father off, not wanting to hear any declarations of love from the man who had abandoned him years ago.

  "Trista won't be going anywhere with you," Michael stated aggressively as he entered the study and closed the door behind him. "She's engaged to me. We're going to be married."

  Lance studied Michael coolly. "I have already made her mine. She is my wife."

  A surge of jealousy consumed Michael at the thought of him possessing Trista. "Only by your custom!"

  "It is enough."

  "Not by our civilized standards! Your wedding ceremony carries no significance here!"

  George broke in, speaking his younger son's name threateningly. "Michael . . . "

  Though his temper was on edge and he longed to throttle Lance, Michael backed off.

  "I asked you in here not to discuss Trista, Lance, but to deal with something far more important."

  Lance merely arched a dark brow in response to the urgency in his tone.

  "Now that you are here, with me . . . with us . . . " George glanced to Michael and saw that he was listening with interest. "I want you to stay."

  His statement took Lance by surprise. Lance had not expected this kind of welcome from the man who had made no effort to contact him in all this time. Yet here his father was, offering him the very things that he had longed for . . . his home and his namesake and his inheritance.

  "You would bribe me with such an offer just to keep Trista for your white son?" he sneered hatefully.

  "Bribe you? I'm not bribing you. I want you to come home. Your place should be here with me." George was serious. "With us."

  "Why now, Barrett?" Lance scoffed.

  "You obviously don't believe that I've tried to contact you, but the truth is that I did. When you didn't respond, I thought that you didn't want to come back to me. Lone Elk and I had agreed long ago that the choice would be yours, and yours alone."

  "You thought right. I came back once, and that one trip was enough. How quickly you had forgotten us . . . my mother and me! How quickly you started a new life without us!"

  "Is that what you think? Is that why you left?"

  "It doesn't matter now." Lance refused to say any more. He felt he'd already revealed far too much about the inner feelings he'd kept hidden for so long.

  "It does matter. You're my son . . . my firstborn. I loved your mother and I love you. I'm sorry for all the misunderstandings that have occurred between us. Stay and let me make up the past to you. Stay and be part of our family. This is where you belong—here, on the Royal Diamond, with me."

  Lance knew he should refuse. He knew he should return to his village and forget that he'd ever spoken with his father, but Trista stole into his thoughts. She was his, he thought fiercely. He would not leave until he could take her with him.

  "Lance . . . you don't have to decide this minute." George didn't want to rush him and risk a refusal. "Stay with us for a few days. Then make your decision. Just know that I want you here. I want you beside me, helping Michael and me to make the Diamond the finest spread in Texas."

  Lance glanced to the brother he could now claim and wondered at his thoughts, but Michael's impassive features revealed neither the raging hatred Lance had expected nor a welcome he would not have believed. Through the turmoil of his coming to a decision, Trista remained, her blond beauty beckoning him elusively onward in much the same way that Fuego's mystique had once drawn him. He was a captive of her
golden allure.

  "I will stay," came his grudging answer.

  His positive response was unexpected. George felt as if his heart would burst with joy, but his excitement was tempered by the reality they had to confront.

  "I'm glad," he told him with heartfelt emotion, "but there is one thing we must decide. The matter of Trista's captivity . . . "

  Lance looked at him coldly. "She's my wife," he stated flatly.

  "Not by our custom, Lance. The marriage is not valid."

  Lance stiffened at his father's statement, but said nothing.

  "It's hard for me to believe that you would have taken a white captive after all your years on the ranch as my son. I would have hoped that more of your past would have stayed with you." He eyed his older son with more than a little disappointment reflected in his gaze. "But this is not the time or place. We need a reasonable story to explain your sudden appearance here and Trista's return. We must protect her reputation if at all possible. I think I have the perfect story that our neighbors should believe if you both agree to go along with it. . . ." George offered, glancing between his sons.

  "What?" Michael asked curtly, disliking deception, but willing to do anything to help Trista.

  "We'll tell everyone that Lance rescued Trista from the Comanche warrior who originally took her captive, and once he'd discovered who she was, he brought her directly here to us."

  Lance was angry at the thought that her reputation needed to be protected from him. He was her husband. They were married. He longed to defy them all, but he wanted Trista more. Grudgingly, he nodded his agreement to go along with the tale.

  Michael also consented.

  "Good." George breathed a sigh of relief, for he knew that the first hurdle in bringing Lance back had been conquered. As long as the neighbors accepted their story, everything would turn out all right.

  Fully clothed, Trista lay upon her bed struggling to come to grips with the emotions that were besieging her. So much had happened in such a short time that she was still trying to sort it all out. She hated Lance—she knew that for a certainty. He had taken her captive, he had stolen her innocence, he had forced her into a marriage she hadn't wanted, and then he had disappeared, leaving her at Night Lark's mercy. Still, it haunted her that he had but to touch her to make her completely forget herself. Trista didn't understand why he had that sensual power over her, and it distressed her that she was so vulnerable to him. Why, just seeing him downstairs and knowing that he had come after her had set her pulse racing. His embrace was her hell . . . and her heaven.

  Trista hoped Lance would leave the Royal Diamond and return to his home with the Comanche. She didn't want him here. All she wanted was to forget him. She was to marry Michael. She would be happy with Michael, and they would have a good life together.

  As Trista fought to put Lance from her mind, she remembered their first encounter and vaguely recalled some of the things he had said to her at the time he'd taken her captive. She frowned as his words took on a deeper meaning. When she had threatened him by telling him that Michael would kill him if he hurt her in any way, Lance had stated that the Barretts would have to track him down first, and they wouldn't want to do that. Knowing what she did now, Trista realized that Lance had truly believed his father had hated him.

  Now, too, Trista sensed that Lance really did love the Royal Diamond, for despite all his Comanche ways, hadn't he told her that she and Michael were the trespassers on the Royal Diamond, and not him? She'd thought that he'd meant they were on what had once been Comanche lands, but now it was all very clear to her. The estrangement between Lance and his father was the result of some terrible misunderstanding when he was a child.

  Trista didn't know what it was that had happened between them, but she felt almost driven to find out. She knew she shouldn't care about Lance and his past, but somehow this vulnerability she sensed in him touched her deeply. First thing in the morning, she resolved, she was going to talk with Rosalie. Trista knew that the servant had been with the family for a long time and that she might be able to provide her with the insights she needed to understand all that had happened.

  "Your room . . . " George began hesitantly, and Lance glanced at him, his eyes coldly questioning. "Your room is much as you left it. . . ."

  The news surprised Lance, but he betrayed none of the emotion to his father.

  "Do you remember where—"

  Lance interrupted him, "I remember where it is." He started toward the study door.

  "Will you need anything?"

  "No. Nothing." His answer was curt as he opened the door.

  "Well then, I'll see you in the morning?" George was nervous as he followed his older son into the hallway. He wanted to hug Lance, to touch him and convince himself that this was really happening, but as he reached out to put his hand on his arm, Lance flinched away. The action hurt George deeply, yet there was little he could do. He realized that Lance's trust in him had been destroyed by long years of separation, and it would take a long time to rebuild it. As much as he was hurting, George knew their relationship could only get better.

  "I will be here in the morning," Lance stated without emotion as he started up the steps, his father watching him with a tear-filled gaze.

  Eleanor had heard Lance and George leave the study and had quickly taken up a place near the parlor doorway to the hall so she could eavesdrop on what was being said. Lance's declaration that he would be there the following day sent her anger soaring. Her most dreaded fear had come true! The half-breed was staying! She waited until Lance had disappeared down the upstairs hall before coming forth to confront her husband.

  "George—is it true? Is he really staying?" She could not keep her disgust from her voice.

  George, however, was so elated over Lance's decision to remain that he missed the snideness of her tone. "Yes, Eleanor, he's agreed to come home. . . ."

  Eleanor saw the happiness in his expression and felt her heart sink. George was welcoming him back with open arms! Was he a total idiot?! Why, this Lance might murder them all in their beds!

  "George, you can't be serious about this?! He's nothing but a filthy savage, and you're welcoming him back. . . ." she exclaimed, distraught.

  "He is my son, Eleanor!" George countered quickly in defense of Lance.

  "He is also the Comanche warrior who kidnapped Trista! Have you forgotten that?"

  "We haven't forgotten, Mother." Michael spoke from where he stood behind her in the study doorway. "We never will. . . ."

  "How can you say that so calmly?" she challenged.

  "Lance is my brother," he said flatly, the feelings that were churning inside of him too perplexing to understand completely just yet.

  "You're claiming that hideous half-breed as your kin?!" Eleanor asked in a strangled voice.

  Michael was quiet for a moment before replying. "I am."

  "But what about Trista and her ordeal?"

  "Trista will never have to deal with Lance again. I'll see to that," he told her determinedly. "Trista and I will be married as we discussed at dinner."

  "But Trista said—" Eleanor started to point out Trista's declaration that she wouldn't marry a man who kept secrets from her.

  "I know what she said, Mother, but she was just upset. It doesn't change anything."

  "I don't believe you two! You're inviting the same man who caused us such terrible grief and heartache into our midst?!"

  "If we had known of his existence sooner, maybe none of this would have happened," George put in. "But I promise you, darling, everything is going to work out fine. You'll see."

  Eleanor shot him an icy glare and stalked rigidly away from them.

  Lance entered the room slowly, cautiously, wondering if what his father had told him was the truth. At first, because his eyes were unaccustomed to the darkness, he had trouble seeing, and the furnishings seemed foreign and strangely threatening to him. After a moment he managed to pick out the lamp on the dresser across the room
and he moved to light it.

  As the warm glow filled the room, so did a tide of memories fill Lance. His father had been serious. Everything looked much as it had when he'd last walked out the door to leave with Lone Elk. With a sense of awe, he looked about. Each piece of furniture that had seemed so dark and ominous moments before now seemed familiar and right in this setting. It was his room, and he realized with a start that it had never ceased to be his room. It was almost as if his father had expected him to return at any moment. The truth jarred him deeply, easing some, but not all, of the mistrust he felt toward George.

  Lance saw the daguerreotype on the small night table and moved mechanically across the room to pick it up. His heart constricted as he stared down at the picture of himself and his mother taken over twenty years ago. He had been so filled with sorrow when he'd gone with Lone Elk that he had deliberately left it behind. Now it touched his soul as nothing else could, and he wrestled with the surge of tender emotions that tore through him.

  "Lance?" Rosalie spoke his name hesitantly as she stood in the hall, her arms full of clothing.

  He turned, the sound of her voice penetrating the last dark corners of his heart. "Rosalie . . . "

  Rosalie stared in amazement at the fierce-looking Comanche warrior who stood before her, but as his features softened into his first real smile of the day, she recognized him. "Dear God, my prayers have been answered! It is you! Little Lance . . . oh, Lance . . . "

  There was no hesitation or reserve in the old woman as she dropped the clothing heedlessly and hurried to Lance. She wrapped him in a warm embrace. The long-forgotten, now-remembered, sweet scent of her wove about him, engulfing him once more in the past, and he was again, for an instant, a child. Without thought, he returned her embrace.

  "Rosalie . . . "

  Stepping away from him after a long, gentle hug, she dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her apron. "We waited so long. . . . We had given up all hope, you know," she told him confidingly. "Your father was so afraid that you were dead. Why did you stay away so long?"

  Lance's composure was severely strained as he stared down at her. When he'd left, her hair had been dark and her complexion smooth and unlined, but now her hair had gone silver and wrinkles marred her once lovely features. Still, she was Rosalie to him, and through these long years he had always remembered her with kindness.